


Ménage à Trois

by dlm



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Anal Fingering, F/M, I'm ashamed of myself, M/M, Multi, Oh god, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 05:43:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4775807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dlm/pseuds/dlm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Are we?” Illya repeats, taking a swig from the bottle. His lips wrap around the bottleneck obscenely, and he pulls away, setting the bottle down on the table with a resolute thud. Illya bites down on his bottom lip, causing them to turn cherry red. </p><p>Napoleon can’t tell if he’s deliberately being coy or not.</p><p>“Gaby said,” Illya says, slow, “that we can get started first.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ménage à Trois

**Author's Note:**

> period-typical attitudes re: homophobia and sexism. not overtly so in this fic, but yanno. gaby sorts it out tho it’s chill
> 
> this is v. much a crackfic under the guise of a pwp. or the other way around, really. i’m ashamed of myself. i swear.

"You are shitting on me," Illya says, jaw clenched.

Gaby looks at him with muted amusement. "I don't recall that being the exact phrase."

"It doesn't matter," Illya says, with a stormy expression. Solo shrugs and winks at Gaby right before he closes the door.

"I guess I'll leave you to smash things for a bit," she says, patting Illya’s arm consolingly. "It was just a suggestion, all in good fun. You know what Solo's like--all talk and, well, all cock." She trails off, shaking her head. "That's not the point. You don't have to worry about us afterwards, if that's what's bothering you."

Illya frowns. "Of course that stupid American thinks that he can seduce the whole world. Of course he thinks partners," here, he stops to shoot a glare at Gaby, “can be shared."

"Solo's your partner." Gaby points out, and hurriedly leaves the room before Illya has an aneurysm.

 

* * *

 

"I don't understand," Gaby says thoughtfully, as she chews through her plateful of steak that Solo had cooked for the three of them. The steak is medium rare--Illya was an animal who demanded his steak rare and Solo had wanted to cook Illya’s steak well done out of spite. This was a compromise of sorts.

Besides, they had nearly killed each other over a piece of meat, Gaby thinks, staring at her steak bleakly. “I don’t see what the big deal is.”

Illya shakes his head. "You are a traitor, Gaby. I thought people from East Berlin were like people in the USSR."

"Blind followers of communism?" Solo interjects helpfully.

Illya grits his teeth. "People who shut up and didn't proposition other people for their selfish sexual pleasure," he hisses as he viciously cuts his steak into unreasonably large chunks.

Gaby and Solo look at each other with their eyebrows raised.

"Fancy words there," Solo finally says, and Illya roars and flips the table, sending their food flying across the room. A little bit of wine gets splashed all over Gaby’s once-pristine white shirt, while two out of the three plates had shattered into a million tiny pieces. Solo sighs and removes the napkin he'd carefully tucked into his shirt.

"I can't believe this is the second time you've flipped a table in my presence," Solo says, mournfully. Gaby looks away into the distance, disinterested. Illya still looks murderous.

"You need to shut the fuck up," Illya says. There's a rash of red around his cheekbones, and maybe Solo sits up a little straighter; eyes a little brighter at that. If illya notices, he doesn't mention it, choosing to glare at Solo instead.

"With your cock in my mouth?" Solo reminds him, hopeful. He cackles when Illya throws a wine glass at his head and misses completely.

“You’re paying for that,” Gaby says, getting up from her seat and removing a napkin from the floor to dab uselessly at her blouse. Only a bit of red is transferring onto the napkin, and she sighs as she lets it drop back onto the ground. She looks up only to find Illya glowering at Solo; the latter having a smirk across his face.

Sighing, she tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear and tells the two of them to kiss and make up before she leaves the room. Hopefully they’ll actually take her advice.

She _certainly_ hears more cutlery being thrown around and glasses shattering once she closes the door, so maybe they were just in some sort of weird heterosexual male standoff before they started making out, or something. Gaby certainly remembers her and Illya going against each other in the days before their relationship; the both of them too proud to make the first move.

Or, she thinks, gloomily, they’re simply just trying to kill each other. The howls that she’s hearing from the room certainly don’t sound erotic in any way imaginable.

 

* * *

 

Breakfast the next morning is a nightmare of sorts. Illya has a scarf wound tightly around his neck and Solo has a black eye that he’s desperately trying to conceal with his shades. They both sit across each other, pointedly ignoring one another.

“How was last night?” Gaby says, brightly.

“A _handful,_ ” Solo quips, complete with a raised eyebrow, and Illya pounds his fist on the table, gritting his teeth.

Gaby raises her eyebrows. “Is that so.”

“We did not have sex,” Illya growls, and continues stabbing at his plate of scrambled eggs and bacon.

Gaby turns to Solo questioningly, and Solo visibly deflates. “Unfortunately, Peril here punched me when I tried to kiss him.”

“Illya!” Gaby’s not even bothering to hide the sheer delight that she’s getting from the entire absurdity of it all.

“He _bit me_ ,” Illya says, holding the ends of his scarf up angrily.

“Oh?” Solo has that infuriating smirk taped onto his face, and Gaby kind of gets why Illya refuses to cooperate with him, now. “I had my lips on your neck and you _punched_ me. I bit down out of reflex,” he concludes, sipping on his coffee to punctuate the end of the sentence.

“ _My woman_ would never bite my neck.” Illya points at Gaby, and she bristles slightly at the remark, but she shrugs it off in the favour of seeing how the entire situation plays out. “You are a lousy partner.”

Solo clucks his tongue, and his face turns inscrutable. “You see, Peril,” he begins, voice dangerously low. “That’s precisely your problem.”

“ _My_ problem?”

“Your problem,” Solo continues, “Is the fact that you have seen this entire _ménage à trois_ in a wrong light. I am not a woman, and therefore you should stop expecting that I behave like one.”

“That’s not fair,” Gaby interjects.

Illya turns to her and his expression softens. “That is true, Cowboy. Women are not the delicate creatures that you think they are.”

“Of course,” Solo agrees. “Which is why this arrangement will work out perfectly.”

Illya blinks. “Excuse me?”

“We’re not going to treat each other like glass flowers in bed, are we?” Here, Solo is the very picture of innocence, except for the sharklike quality in his grin and the way his eyes darken.

“Why would you have glass flowers in bed,” Illya says, and the tension defuses. They all return to their now-cold plates of food, and Gaby finishes her toast deep in thought.

 

* * *

 

That night, Illya turns to her while they’re tangled in each other in bed; his blond hair flopping over his eyes and his book set aside on the nightstand. He reaches out and takes Gaby’s hand with a steely look in his eyes.

“Go on,” Gaby says, intrigued.

“Solo can participate next time,” he says curtly, and lets go of her hand to quickly open his book. His brows are furrowed and she’s honestly so smitten with this stupid Russian giant. Her hands push his hair back and she slings an arm around his shoulder.

“If you’re this against being with a man, I understand.” Gaby and Solo just happened to have lax attitudes on who slept with who, after all. She’s not really expecting Illya to share the same sentiment. “You know,” she says, very seriously, “if you’re uncomfortable with this, we can just drop the whole thing and Solo can go off with some woman.”

Illya’s jaw clenches. “Somehow, I don’t think that will solve anything,” and the way he drops the subject like that is enough to make Gaby squint at him in suspicion. She supposes that this will do for now, though, and she removes her hand from his shoulder to curl up against him contentedly while he sighs and turns the pages of his book.

 

* * *

 

Napoleon enters their room with a look of unease clearly written on his face. “Gaby called me to come here. Something about a drink.” He waves a hand at Illya and laughs. “I see you’ve already started.”

“That is an understatement,” Illya says wryly, knocking back a glass of vodka. He has the bottle fisted in his hand, and he raises his now empty glass at Napoleon. “Liquid courage.” He says the phrase like he’s picked it up from somewhere and is now trying it out for the first time. “You can have some too, although I don’t think two out of the three of us should be drinking.”

“You’re still eloquent enough,” Napoleon notes, and that startles a laugh out of Illya--something harsh and low, and Solo wonders if he’s this easy, this loose around Gaby; if he’s only just barely restraining himself around Solo.

“I am always eloquent,” Illya says, and there’s an earnestness that Napoleon’s never heard from him before. There’s a lovely red blooming across his cheeks, and Illya’s eyes are burning bright. “Just ask Gaby.”

“Gaby, huh.” He’s stood by Illya’s chair, now. “Are we,” he starts. Actually spelling out the entire situation out loud seemed to him as something improbable. Yet here he was, he thinks, staring at the sofa’s upholstery where Illya’s sat.

Illya looks at him through his lashes, his gaze hooded. Napoleon feels something unfurl in him, and this time, he has no smug smirk to give. “Are we?” Illya repeats, taking a swig from the bottle. His lips wrap around the bottleneck obscenely, and he pulls away, setting the bottle down on the table with a resolute thud. Illya bites down on his bottom lip, causing them to turn cherry red. Napoleon can’t tell if he’s deliberately being coy or not.

“Gaby said,” Illya says, slow, “that we can get started first.”

Napoleon smiles, amused. “She really said that?” He’s standing in front of Illya; their knees touching. Illya’s sprawled on the sofa with flushed cheeks and a too-bright grin on his face, and Napoleon kind of wants to wreck him. Just a little. The other way around works, too, he thinks, feeling want flush through him.

Illya’s legs part and Napoleon takes that as an invitation to straddle him; his hips stuttering against the hot line of Illya’s body, and he presses his forehead to Illya’s, their hot breaths mingling. “Can I,” Napoleon says, and he’s not sure what he even wants anymore. Illya shuts him up with a growl and kisses him, and soon they’re trading messy kisses while Illya’s hands reach around to grab at Napoleon’s ass; warm and heavy.

Napoleon quickly discovers that Illya actually likes having his jawline and throat being practically mauled, and he presses his lips next to the mark that he had previously left on Illya’s neck before sucking a bruise.

“You-- _ah,_ ” Illya gasps, “We are not schoolboys anymore, there is no need to mark me like you have just discovered how to kiss.” He arches against Napoleon all the same, though, and Napoleon chooses to roll his hips lazily against Illya’s instead. Illya’s letting out these small noises that drive Napoleon absolutely fucking mad, but he’s trying to swallow them and he’s biting at the back of his hands to silence himself.

“Yes, we are not,” Napoleon hums, and grinds against the hard line of Illya’s cock through his finely tailored trousers, pleased when Illya follows the motion himself, choosing to bite down his gasps against Napoleon’s jaw instead. Illya is so _pretty,_ Napoleon realizes, with his bright blue eyes and his hair mussed up due to Napoleon’s careless fingers and his cheeks stained with red.

The thing is: Illya Kuryakin kisses like a nymphomaniac on death row; like he’s been drowning for so long and is now coming up for thick gulps of air, still sharp on his tongue. Napoleon gives as good as he gets, and the two of them rut against each other, greedy for the push and pull of it all.

Napoleon dimly registers the faint click of a door opening and the sound of sleepy footsteps shuffling towards them.

“I see you two have taken my advice to heart,” Gaby says, standing behind Illya’s chair so that only Napoleon’s facing her. Napoleon pulls away, breathing heavily, and Illya makes a noise of protest before turning around to face Gaby.

“We have seen the light,” Illya says, dryly. It’s amazing how he manages to appear so calm when his appearance says otherwise, Napoleon thinks, taking in the way Illya’s shirt is rucked up halfway up his chest and his swollen lips and the way he’s taking in shallow breaths; chest heaving.

Gaby leans against the top of the sofa and pouts, kissing the top of Illya’s head after. “And you got so carried away that you forgot to invite me?”

Napoleon looks at her--properly, this time, deliberately ignoring the way Illya’s fingers dig deeper into his hipbones. She’s dressed in one of Illya’s sleepshirts and little else, and the way she’s looking all sleepy and rumpled is definitely doing it for him.

Napoleon Solo’s a little easy, who woulda thunk.

Pressing a kiss against the corner of Illya’s mouth, he bats his eyelashes at Gaby. “How are we going to do this?”

She takes a moment to adjust her ponytail; her hands high up reaching behind her head, revealing black lace panties and a sliver of skin, and Napoleon swallows thickly. She finishes tying her ponytail with a flourish and beams.

 

* * *

 

Gaby’s solution, apparently, is to drag the both of them into the bedroom with her hands around Illya’s and Napoleon’s wrists. Napoleon takes the time to admire the pertness of her ass, and he nearly cackles when Illya catches him looking.

“Stop that,” Illya hisses.

“Stop what?” Napoleon says innocently.

“Boys,” Gaby says, patiently, “Please don’t ruin it for all of us.” She turns to Illya and tuts at him. “Especially you. I don’t get why you’re jealous, we’re literally one step away from a threesome.”

Illya splutters and Napoleon laughs out loud this time.

 

* * *

 

“This is not sexy,” Illya grumbles, when the three of them have piled into a messy heap onto the bed. They’ve managed to remove some of their clothing--Solo’s fully bare because he has no shame, Gaby thinks wryly, Illya’s removed his shirt on the way to the bedroom, and Gaby’s discarded her shirt in a similar fashion.  Illya’s stuck in the middle between Gaby and Solo, and his hair is sticking up in a million different directions. Gaby feels the urge to kiss him--and Solo beats her to the punch, curling a hand around to reach the nape of Illya’s neck while kissing Illya languidly.

Gaby rolls her eyes but reaches over to plant a wet kiss on Solo’s cheek anyway, giggling in delight. She rubs up against Illya’s thigh experimentally and lets out a breathy sigh when the friction gets to her clit just so. She still has her panties on, and she feels _filthy_ , her eyes fluttering shut and her shuddery breaths more audible.

There’s someone kissing the side of her neck, now, and she opens her eyes to see Illya pressing open-mouthed kisses that are trailing down to her breasts with Solo hovering behind the both of them. He looks blissed out like this, with one hand digging in tightly on one of Illya’s thighs, the other hand in a loose fist around his cock.

“Can I,” she tells Illya, carding her fingers absently through his hair. He looks up at her and she gestures towards Solo.

Illya answers her by batting Solo’s hand away from his own cock and replacing it with his own; guiding Gaby’s head towards Solo’s at the same time. “You may,” he says, hoarsely, and Gaby sighs happily, obliging by thumbing Solo’s nipple and bending down to suck; pleased when Solo elicits a wet gasp. The noise makes her grind down on empty air, wanting, and thankfully Solo realises that she’s missing something, offering his fingers for her to rub against as he presses them tentatively against her panties.

“Here’s the thing,” Solo says, after a while. His voice sounds distant and dreamlike, and there are wispy strands of his hair curled against his forehead by his sweat. He looks at Illya and bites down on his bottom lip, and says, “I want to suck you off.”

“Okay,” Illya slurs, his accent thickening, and Gaby watches the two of them reposition themselves so that Illya’s sat up straight, leaning against the headboard while Solo’s on all fours with his ass in the air, and she watches the swell of Solo’s ass, and finds herself asking him if he’s cleaned down there.

“What?” Solo says, questioningly.

She huffs and decides to rub a finger down against the crack of Solo’s ass, and he leans back into the touch and lets out a soft _‘oh’,_ and then, _‘yes,’_ which makes Gaby grin as she moves away to search for the tub of Vaseline in their nightstand and coating her fingers liberally; grinning wider to return to the sight of Solo with his lips around the head of Illya’s cock, his eyes hidden by the way he’s gotten them half-open, lost in bliss.

Kicking her panties off--which are soaked through, she manages to note with amusement, she gets her forefinger and rubs circles around her clit while she uses her free hand to spread Solo’s cheeks of his ass apart and licks against the pucker of his hole, almost curiously. She’s rewarded by Solo pushing back against the wet of her tongue; greedy, and he sucks Illya’s cock viciously afterwards, whimpering as he runs his hands all over Illya’s sides.

Illya has his hands in Solo’s hair, and his hips snap upwards to meet Solo’s rhythm. “ _Блять,”_ he half-growls, half-whispers, and Solo grabs at his cock, thrusting into his fist sloppily, keening. “You dirty _whore_ ,” Illya rubs Solo’s cheek, all mock tenderness, and he pulls at Solo’s hair, gratified when Solo pulls off Illya’s cock to gasp wetly against his hips instead, despite the loss of contact.

Gaby’s slipped her middle finger into her cunt, lapping at the edge of Solo’s hole with her tongue before scissoring a finger in, pleased when Solo lets out a whimper; speeding up the pace at which he’s fisting his cock. Illya lets Solo suck on his fingers and watching the way Solo’s mouth fall open to accommodate for Illya’s cock is so very satisfying, Gaby thinks, as she pushes another finger in herself and thrusts in and out while tracking the way Solo’s looking a little dazed as he sucks around Illya without complaint.

It’s all so good and _too much,_ and she clenches down on her fingers and comes in convulsing shocks that has her gasping loudly, while she manages to thrust a finger deeper into Napoleon, curling and rubbing over his prostate with certainty.

“Good boy,” Illya says, as Napoleon mewls brokenly, trapped between taking Illya in deeper and the way Gaby’s pushing up against Napoleon’s prostate, and he whines and groans and grinds down against the mattress in pure _need_ and.

Gaby can feel her cunt getting wetter at the sight, and she continues to play with her clit in earnest, spreading slickness around, edging around the thin line between pain and pleasure while she scissors Solo’s ass until finally, finally, he comes, his mouth still around Illya’s cock, whining and whining until Gaby takes pity on him and removes her fingers. Illya follows shortly afterwards, pulling out, jerking himself a few times before coming on all over Solo’s face; the stark milky white an obscenity against the swollen red of Solo’s lips.

Solo rolls over to sit next to Illya, wiping the mess uselessly with the back of his hand then, and after a few moments of the both of them breathing heavily; their chests heaving up and down in sync, Illya’s eyes widen, taking Gaby in.

She’s a mess at this point, her cheeks splotchy, her hips red with fingerprints from when they had held her down, and she’s still sensitive from her first orgasm, but Illya smiles lazily at her and hauls her so that she’s seated on his lap. She blinks at him, and he kisses her square on the mouth before sliding two fingers into her cunt roughly, and she nearly _yells,_ and he growls harsh Russian into her ear, drawing out consonants and punctuating the end of his sentences with the rough push of his fingers in her, and he gets his thumb on her clit and presses down savagely before she comes with a shout.

 

* * *

 

Illya wants to punch Napoleon Solo the next day when he smiles at the both of them smugly through his glass of orange juice.

“I’m a genius,” Solo says, leering at the way Gaby and Illya had chosen to wear clothes that, well, concealed any marks left from the night before. Illya had a turtleneck on and Gaby had some sort of scarf that looked more like a monstrosity trying to consume her entire neck.

“The French beat you to it,” Illya mutters, choosing to look down at his bowl of cereal instead. Never did such cornflakes fascinate him so.

Another silence passes, this time with Illya and Solo staying quiet, for once.

Finally, Gaby clears her throat and says, “so, we’re doing this again?”

“Fuck yes,” Solo says, at the same time Illya nods stiffly.

  


**Author's Note:**

> this started out as crack that i had written on my phone, and then this happened.
> 
> water-based lube (aka the one commonly alluded to in fic) apparently didn’t exist as an over the counter thing until the 1980s. people mostly relied on vaseline. 
> 
> my only knowledge of russian is taken from angry russians on online games. Сука Блять.  
> (i.e. fucking bitch/slut etc. you get the idea.)
> 
> (yell @ me about tmfu on [twitter](http://twitter.com/kvryakin) because i talk way too much.)


End file.
